


make a pledge and mischief is nigh

by Sibilant



Series: The Reverse Universe AU [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Prequel, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how they meet: how Blake steals a Lamborghini, how Bane is reluctantly charmed, and everything that happens in between.</p>
<p>(Prequel to the Reverse Universe AU snippet)</p>
            </blockquote>





	make a pledge and mischief is nigh

**Author's Note:**

> Set roughly five or six years before the Perestroika snippet.

This is how it starts.

It is ten months into Bane’s career as a vigilante, six months into his unofficially official working alliance with Barsad, and two weeks into the GPD’s abrupt, unexplained manhunt for Bane.

When Bane arrives on the precinct rooftop, Barsad is already waiting. Without looking at him, he hands Bane a manila folder, more than an inch thick.

“Something more substantial for you to work on, perhaps,” he says.

Just as Barsad is careful not to look at Bane, Bane is careful to keep to the shadows. There is no one in the immediate vicinity, and to any distant onlookers, Barsad will merely seem like an exhausted lieutenant, brooding alone on the roof of the precinct. Bane angles the folder toward the meager light and flips it open.

The folder contains the criminal record of one Robin John Blake: twenty-three years old; a Gotham native with a criminal history extending all the way from the age of eighteen. Bane has no doubt there would be even more offences if Barsad had included juvenile records.

And all the listed offences indicate that Blake is—

“A _thief_?” He doesn’t bother to keep the disbelief and contempt out of his voice. He can see Barsad raise an eyebrow, in profile.

“A very, _very_ good thief,” Barsad replies mildly. “Or perhaps, a very, very bad one, depending upon the definitions you choose.”

In any other circumstance, Bane would be amused. But these are not other circumstances. “Are you aware, Barsad,” he says, allowing a shred of irritation to bleed through, “that I have spent the past fortnight skulking in alleys, avoiding squad cars, foot patrols, and the more intrepid of your detectives?”

“I’m going to assume that question was rhetorical, seeing as we are currently _skulking_ , as you put it, in the shadows for this meeting.”

Bane grunts. The GPD’s sudden manhunt has limited the time he has been able to spend _as Bane_ , and the restlessness crawls beneath his skin. And now – with full awareness of Bane’s current limitations – Barsad has given him a _petty thief_ to chase down. He voices that last part to Barsad.

He doesn’t mention the restlessness. Barsad snips enough already about Bane’s focus on his mission.

Barsad sighs. Waving a hand at the folder without looking back, he says, “The situation you’re in right now is indirectly related to Blake.”

“… How so?”

“Blake's been engaged in criminal activity since he was a teenager, but for the past two months or so, he appears to be working in Gotham exclusively. And he’s been making certain segments of Gotham society _incredibly_ nervous. Anxious. He has very specific… criteria when it comes to his targets.”

Bane looks down at the rap sheet and its list of offenses again. Fraud. Assault. Breaking and entering. _Grand_ larceny. The latter two, over and over. “He targets the wealthy.”

“The wealthiest,” Barsad agrees, nodding. “His last target was John Daggett. Or rather, Daggett’s mistress and her diamonds. He orchestrated it so that not only did he get the diamonds, but Dagett’s long-time girlfriend found out about the mistress.”

Bane smirks. “How unfortunate.”

“Do I detect a hint of schadenfreude in your tone?”

“Wholly justifiable when it comes to Daggett.”

Barsad doesn't quite grin. “In any case, Daggett was – and still is – baying for blood. Honestly, I’m not sure what upsets him more - the loss of the diamonds or Blake exposing his indiscretions. But since then, he’s been rabble-rousing with the rest of his circle, pressuring the mayor to ‘get tough on crime’—” Barsad’s voice goes sardonic at the catchphrase, “—and it’s an election year, which means Garcia is pressuring the Commissioner, which means the Commissioner is pressuring _me_ , which means—”

“The GPD is under pressure to get arrests on all high-profile criminals. And me,” Bane finishes.

“Technically you're the highest profile criminal of them all,” Barsad says wryly. Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Bane blinks. That's... atypical for Barsad. The man rarely gave anything away beyond sardonic amusement.

He examines Barsad carefully. Barsad looks thinner; his stubble is transforming into a fully-fledged beard, and there are hollows beneath his cheekbones. He’s exhausted, Bane realises - just as exhausted from the manhunt as Bane is.

Still rubbing his face, Barsad’s voice is muffled when he says, “I freely admit that I am giving this case to you because it is in my best interests to have Blake caught. My detectives are overworked as it is, and they don’t need Daggett using City Hall to breathe down their necks about Blake.” He smiles faintly and drops his hand, still careful to avoid looking at Bane. “But I also think it will be in _your_ best interests to catch Blake, and that you are in the best position to do it. Or, rather, your more public persona is. Blake only targets the wealthy. I’m surprised he hasn’t targeted you yet.”

 

\---

 

Bane’s public façade is that of a man who is foolishly wealthy and incredibly work-obsessed. He is blonde and his hair is cut rather unfashionably (it is a wig). He wears slightly ill-fitting suits and walks with a stoop, all the better to hide his height and the true breadth of his shoulders.

His public persona – as Barsad has dubbed it – is named Charles E. Fleming. It is not the name he was born with, but no one had ever cared to know his name until he’d put on the mask.

Either of them.

 

\---

 

This is how they meet.

It has been three weeks since Blake’s last theft when Bane hosts a cocktail party on the penthouse floor of the Regal, a hotel of the Beaux Arts style. It is a place so ostentatious, so lavishly decorated that the details run together into a gilded blur - red and gold draperies, ivory inlaid furniture, gleaming marble pillars arching upward to an enormous stained glass skylight. It screams old money.

It is the perfect target for a thief with a penchant for robbing the wealthy.

Bane is ostensibly holding the party in honour of Harvey Dent’s appointment to District Attorney, but the obligatory toasts and speeches have long since been dispensed with. The guest of honour is preoccupied in a private, darkened corner with his lady love (Bane thinks Dent may be working up the courage to propose), and the party has slid into cheerful bacchanalia. Bane’s guests drink blithely, carefree in the knowledge that Bane has booked all three floors directly beneath the penthouse for any and all overnight guests.

Bane ducks past the glittering ice sculptures and equally glittering guests, out to the rooftop garden. The crowd here is even larger, but – more importantly – the majority of the wait staff are also here. Based on the limited surveillance footage available and past crime scene reports, Bane has surmised that Blake often poses as a staff member to gain entry to limited access areas. Just another ubiquitous, easily forgotten face. Bane weaves through the wait staff now, looking quickly at their faces, but never lingering. He doesn’t need to. He's studied the surveillance footage and Blake’s police photograph so thoroughly that he can recall all the details, in grainy black and white, with his eyes closed.

Four hours pass and Blake is still nowhere to be seen. Then:

“ _Charlie Boy!_ ”

Bane’s society mask almost slips.

It's Davenport, whose nasal, drawling tones have never failed to set Bane’s teeth on edge. For a fleeting moment, Bane is tempted to feign deafness and slip away. But such a reaction would be the complete reverse of Charles Fleming – who's the host, more importantly – so Bane swallows down his irritation and pastes a mild, pleasant expression on his face.

“Jay,” he says, turning. The smile on his face freezes.

Standing beside Davenport, the familiar greyscale features of his face rendered unfamiliar in full colour, is Blake, smiling faintly back.

 

\---

 

The next five minutes are a blur of inane conversation, during which two things become clear: that Blake has gained access to the party as Davenport’s plus one, and that Davenport regards him purely as eye candy. Davenport hadn’t even bothered to introduce Blake. Simply barrelled straight into a conversation with Bane with one arm looped around Blake’s waist, casually possessive.

Bane barely hears Davenport’s prattle. Blake has his attention entirely.

He isn’t what Bane had expected.

He’d expected Blake to be inscrutable. He isn’t. He’d expected Blake to be a master at controlling his expressions. He isn’t.

Bane spends far longer than he ought to, taking in the way Blake’s mouth twists subtly in annoyance as he listens to Davenport, and Bane counts three occasions – when Davenport turns away – where Blake openly rolls his eyes, evidently not caring that Bane is watching. Blake’s shoulders shift whenever he hears something particularly insipid from the crowd. A muscle jumps in his jaw whenever Davenport lets out a braying laugh, before dimples pop into existence as he levels a dazzling, false smile at Davenport.

It's as if there are two versions of Blake, layered almost – but still not quite – perfectly on top of one another, like a double exposure photograph. To Bane, who only ever utilises one mask at a time, it’s _fascinating_.

He only realises he’s been staring when he hears Davenport say, “Right, Charlie? … Charlie. _Charles_.”

“Hmm?”

Davenport looks equal parts amused and annoyed. He winds his arm more firmly around Blake’s waist, leering. “I suppose I can’t blame you for getting distracted, but I’m sorry, Charlie, this one’s mine. You’ll have to stick to looking only.” Davenport grins, pressing a butterfly kiss to Blake’s temple. Bane sees Blake’s lip curl into a momentary sneer, before his expression smooths over.

“I don’t believe you’ve introduced us, Jay,” Bane scolds lightly. When Blake blinks in surprise, Bane frowns. Hadn't Davenport introduced him to _anyone_?

“Oh? _Oh_.” Davenport laughs, unrepentant. “Charlie, this is Tom Ryder. Tom, this is Charlie - _the_ Charles Fleming.”

Blake flashes him an even, all-American smile and his dimples make another appearance. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Fleming.” He holds out his hand for a handshake.

Bane shakes it firmly, saying, “Charles, please. And the pleasure’s all mine.” Simple, formulaic words, but Blake’s smile changes when he hears them; it becomes smaller, one corner crooking up higher than the other. It’s far sweeter and far more personal than the first smile he’d given Bane.

Bane finds himself abruptly wanting to smile back.

And then Davenport is speaking again, eager to discuss the ongoing saga of Cahill and his third ex-wife’s vengeful attempts to rake money out of him. Bane reluctantly turns his attention to him.

But when he looks back again later, Blake is watching him, dark eyes thoughtful and speculative.

 

\---

 

More people drift toward them , drawn by the twin attractions of Bane’s and Davenport’s wealth and status, and Bane spends an interminable amount of time mired in social gossip before the conversation turns, inevitably, to material possessions.

And this— _this_ is the point Bane has been waiting for.

As St. Cloud is describing her upgraded private jet and latest trip to Dubai, Bane faux-casually pulls the key fob for the Reventon out of his pocket. He makes sure the light catches on the gold enamelled logo because it's something Charles Fleming, shallow and conceited, would do.

He hears the in-drawn breath of more than a few people. Blake’s attention is drawn immediately.

Selling the ludicrous notion that a _car_ could be his pride and joy is rather more difficult with Blake standing before him, mouth still tipped up in that distracting, sweetly crooked smile. But Bane knows he's sold it. When Bane gives a smug grin in response to Davenport’s admiringly envious, “ _No_ — you did _not_ get one of those, you complete bastard,” and Blake’s dark eyes flash contemptuously, Bane knows he’s succeeded.

Blake’s settled on what he’s going to steal tonight.

 

\---

 

The bathroom door opens and closes less than a minute after Bane had ducked in.

Bane glances up from the sink and ends up meeting the reflection of Blake’s eyes in the mirror.

He tenses.

He continues watching via the mirror as Blake, never breaking his gaze, kicks at the doorstop and wedges the door shut.

Blake leans against the door. “You’ve been watching me,” he says.

Bane blinks. What? And then it hits him. It only dawns on him, with Blake standing five feet away, that his glances at Blake throughout the night could have been interpreted very, _very_ differently.

He can barely keep his mouth from thinning. Stupid, _stupid_. He hadn’t thought— hadn’t even considered—

Bane wants to scowl. He despises this - the petty flirtations and shallow games that people of Davenport’s ilk (and, admittedly, Charles Fleming’s ilk) play. But now Bane is _stuck_ in this role, so he forces himself to smirk instead of gritting his teeth. “You’re an attractive man, Mr Ryder,” he says lightly, barely remembering not to say ‘Blake’. “I can hardly be blamed, can I?”

That much, at least, is true. Blake _is_ lovely.

Blake hums in reply and walks closer, still holding Bane’s gaze via the mirror. He stops just behind Bane’s left shoulder. Blake is not a particularly short man, but Bane is still taller than him, even affecting Charles Fleming’s characteristic stooped shoulders; Blake has to tilt his head back as he looks at Bane, considering. And then he runs a finger, feather light and careful, up Bane’s arm, until his hand comes to rest on Bane’s shoulder.

Bane swallows.

He hadn’t intended to, and it comes out louder than he’s entirely comfortable with. But Blake likes it; his smile widen when he hears it.

The hand on Bane’s shoulder moves to cup the back of his neck and Bane breathes in sharply.

He should stop Blake. He should. Because whilst Blake is attractive – _beguilingly_ so – this is not how Bane operates. This is not what he’d intended. In a few short hours, Bane is going to capture Blake when he steals into Bane’s room to take the Reventon key, and then Bane is going to hand him over to Barsad.

He refuses to needlessly complicate things.

He turns to Blake – opening his mouth to rebuff him gently, or to make a joke, perhaps; he’s forgotten how Charles Fleming would likely behave in this situation – and Blake’s hand slides from the back of his neck to his tie. There’s a beat as Blake simply rubs his thumb over the knot, expression thoughtful and pensive.

And then Blake smirks. He wraps his fingers tight around the length of silk, and _pulls_ , jerking Bane forward, even as he leans in—

The kiss is rough - open-mouthed and wet from the start. Blake wastes no time, running his tongue over Bane’s lower lip before licking filthily into his mouth and it’s _good_ , Bane can’t deny that it’s good, Blake’s mouth teasing him whilst he leans into Bane. Bane gets his hands up, wraps his fingers around Blake’s shoulders but does no more, frozen by the conflicting urges to push Blake away or pull him closer—

Blake makes a quiet, satisfied noise, low in his throat.

It shoots straight through Bane, and his fingers tighten convulsively. He can feel Blake grin against his mouth.

Blake kisses confidently – surprisingly aggressive – and he pulls back only to take enough of a short, gasping breath before coming back for more. He starts walking them backward. Bane is a head taller than Blake, but Blake moves with assurance, never stopping, running his hands restlessly along Bane’s shoulders, his sides, as he backs Bane up. He doesn’t stop until Bane’s back hits the bathroom wall, until they’re standing flush up against one another from chest to thigh, and Bane groans. Blake is gorgeously, _distractingly_ warm against him, and his mouth is talented and clever, and Bane wants, he needs—

He needs to _think_.

Bane jerks his head back sharply, ignoring Blake’s disappointed noise; ends up knocking his head hard against the tile. Black and white stars explode painfully in his vision. But it jostles him out of body sensation and back into his head.

He almost hadn’t felt it, the touch had been so feather-light. But, after a second, he knows it for what it is: the brush of Blake’s fingers near his pocket.

_Ah_.

Bold. Brazen. Bane almost smiles. The tiny frisson of disappointment is buried beneath satisfaction. He has definite confirmation – albeit not in the form he’d expected – that Blake intends to steal the Reventon. And when Blake leans in again, eyes falling halfway-shut, Bane is clear headed enough to get a firm grip of his shoulders, and push him back and away.

He makes sure he can see both of Blake’s hands.

“I distinctly recall you came here with Davenport,” Bane says. If his voice sounds gravellier than normal, he chooses to ignore it.

“Jay’s an asshole.” Blake replies immediately, eyes on Bane’s mouth. “He thinks I’m just a warm body and a pretty face. Did you know you were the only person who had the decency to ask for an introduction?” All true. But not being used truthfully. Perhaps Blake is better at deception than Bane had credited him for.

“You didn't think I was so decent when I was talking about the Reventon.”

Blake pulls back a little to look at him, surprised, but after a moment he simply shrugs. “Alright, so I think it’s shallow to act like that over a car. It doesn’t mean I dislike the rest of you.” His mouth curls into that crooked smile again, and Bane is gripped by the urge to lean back in and taste it.

Bane’s hands are still on Blake’s shoulders, but Blake’s hands are free. Bane feels him run the knuckles of one hand, soft and teasing, along the outseam of Bane’s pants. Bane gives Blake something that is not quite a smile and angles his hip away.

This time, he doesn’t miss the flash of frustration that crosses Blake’s face.

Part of him wants to reel Blake back in, to slot their mouths and their bodies together until Blake is frustrated for an _entirely_ different reason, but Bane ignores it. He forces himself to say, as mildly as he can manage, “Whilst I’m incredibly flattered, Mr Ryder, I’m afraid I must decline.”

Bane pushes him back gently and Blake moves out of his way, unresisting.

 

\---

 

Blake will try again, Bane knows.

He’d constructed a profile of Blake, based on the reports Barsad had given him. He knows that Blake is reckless, impulsive, with a tendency to fixate. More than once, Blake had tracked items that had been moved to more secure locations, determined to steal them, regardless of the heightened risk.

Blake will try again, and he will try again soon.

There are only two points of access to Bane’s hotel room: the balcony and the front door. Either way, Blake will have to cross through the sitting room to access any and all rooms as he hunts for the key. Bane settles himself down in the shadows of the sitting room, waiting.

Two hours pass before he hears the quiet _click_ of the door being opened. Bane stays silent as Blake slides in from the hallway. Gone is the pale, tailored suit (a pity), swapped in favour of a dark navy jacket and matching pants. No extra pockets or loops that could catch on things whilst working. Everything is simple, close fitted, and functional, save for a neat black domino mask. It appears to be the sole concession to Blake’s personality, appearing almost whimsical against the otherwise utilitarian outfit. In spite of himself, Bane smiles.

Blake stows the key hacker back in his utility belt. He moves easily, lightly, no trace of flirtation or seduction in his body now. Perhaps Bane had been too hasty when he’d judged Blake as being transparent. Bane waits until Blake has moved fully into the sitting room before he rises up, slowly and purposefully.

“Looking for something, Mr Blake?”

Blake swings around, wide-eyed. He locks up completely when he sees Bane.

Bane reaches slowly into his pocket and pulls out the key fob of the Reventon.  “Mr Fleming was more than willing to vacate his rooms to assist me, after I explained you might be targeting him.”

Blake’s eyes narrow and his lips thin as he processes that. Bane smiles beneath his mask and strolls toward him, keeping his pace unhurried and even. Blake doesn’t move. It’s a satisfying inverse of their encounter in the bathroom, even if Blake has no idea that Bane and Fleming are one in the same.

When Bane is only two feet away, Blake seems to recover his voice. “How do you know who I am?”

“The good detectives of the Major Crimes Unit have had their eyes on you for a while.”

Blake’s eyebrows go up. “Major Crimes?” he says, incredulous. “The GPD’s on a _manhunt_ for you. What’re you helping them for?”

“The GPD is on a manhunt for me because _you_ have made certain people incredibly angry, Mr Blake.”

Blake’s expression changes then. His eyes narrow and his lips curl back into a sneer. “So you’re going to take me in to get them off your back. How heroic.”

“You are being taken in because you have broken the law. Several times.”

“And _you_ haven’t?”

“Never for personal gain.”

Blake’s eyes flash. “Don’t talk like you know me. You’ve got no idea why I do this, so you don’t get to act like you’re better than me.”

Bane can barely resist saying, _I_ am _better than you_ , but Blake sees it in his eyes; his face hardens as he stalks forward, no fear in his body language at all, until he’s standing almost chest to chest with Bane. Bane tries not to think about the bathroom and the feel of Blake’s body against his.

“You’re no better than I am,” Blake hisses. “The papers might call you Gotham’s protector, but you’re _not_. I’ve read all the articles. You protect East End. You protected _the Narrows_ , for God’s sake. You protect all the nasty, forgotten little places that nobody else gives a shit about. And your reason for doing what you do is no different from mine. We just have different ways of going about it.”

“So you presume to know _me_?” Bane asks. He angles his chin down so he can better look Blake in the eyes. His eyes are dark, almost liquid in the moonlight, and Bane wants to pull off his mask and lean in closer.

Blake tilts his head. His expression thaws. “I think I know enough,” he says, before gesturing around the room, encompassing the opulence and the wealth. “You don’t care about these people. They have enough. They have _more_ than enough. And it’s not a bad thing that you don’t care about them, Bane. It’s _not_ —” Blake pushes himself ever-so-slightly closer and Bane sucks in a breath—

_Blake is doing it again._

Bane smiles mirthlessly to himself. He really _had_ underestimated Blake.

He drops down low and lunges forward, intending to knock Blake off-balance before grabbing him, but Blake is suddenly _liquid_ , twisting to the side and flipping away, out of reach.

“Aww, big guy,” he coos with mock-sympathy, all traces of vulnerability and understanding gone now. “Did I hit a little too close to home? You’re not Gotham’s hero. You’re _a_ hero, maybe, but you’ve got biases, just like the rest of us.”

All the while he’s been talking, Blake has been moving in a slow arc, keeping objects between himself and Bane at all times – couches, tables, even the ridiculous baby grand piano near the balcony.

It doesn’t help him.

Once Blake clears the piano, Bane leaps straight at Blake, body-checking him into the wall – inelegant, perhaps, but effective. Blake gasps as he collides with the wall, but he’s twisting away immediately, trying to reclaim more ground. Bane grants him no quarter. He hooks a foot around Blake’s ankle, sweeps his legs out from under him, and slams his forearm against Blake’s chest in the same movement, pinning him against the top of the piano.

Blake thrashes, brings his fists up and around to box Bane’s ears, but Bane catches his hands easily and pins them above his head in one hand. Blake glares furiously at him. Bane tuts. “There’s no need for that, Mr Blake,” he says, taking his forearm off Blake’s chest to reach into his vest pocket. When he pulls his hand back out, he holds it up high so Blake can see the handcuffs dangling from them.

Blake's face goes still when he sees the handcuffs. He seems to be completely frozen until Bane flicks one cuff open and snaps it around his wrist.

_Then_ Blake surges into movement again, bucking and twisting. By sheer chance, he manages to knee Bane in the side of the ribs. Even through his vest, Bane feels the desperate force behind it. It makes him grunt, and he loses his grip on the other manacle, although he manages to keep Blake’s hands pinned.

Blake keeps twisting beneath him; he plants his feet firmly against the wall behind Bane, bracketing Bane between his legs. He’s clearly intending to either push away with them or brace himself to head butt Bane. Both manoeuvres will be ineffective if attempted.

Bane leans down heavily against Blake, presses harder on his wrists - hard enough to feel bone grind against bone. As he feels blindly for the other end of the hand cuffs, he sees Blake grit his teeth against the pain; hears a little choked breath, before Blake’s eyes meet his, glittering in the moonlight.

Blake grins, sudden and predatory, and Bane only has enough time to think, _what?—_

Before Blake’s thighs tense, his back arches and he _rolls_ his hips, calculated and rough, against Bane’s.

Bane sucks in a breath. He’s _hard_ , and the pressure of Blake’s hips against him is sweet; almost sinfully good. Blake rolls his hips again and the air punches out of Bane’s lungs. He feels suddenly, ridiculously light-headed and his grip loosens.

Just for a second. But a second is enough.

Blake twists in his grip, gets his hands free. He grabs the straps of Bane’s vest, grin turning savage. Blake hauls himself upright, and drives his knee into Bane’s stomach before rolling off the piano. It barely winds Bane, but it affords Blake enough time to sprint for the balcony. Bane leaps toward him again, but Blake clearly has a better idea of Bane’s speed now, and he turns away deftly at the last second. The manacle swings freely from his wrist as he jerks the balcony door open, turning back only to kick a chair painfully into Bane’s path.

Bane scarcely notices it. _He needs to get to Blake_ —

There’s a sudden pounding on the door.

It stops both Bane and Blake in their tracks.

“Mr. Fleming?” a voice calls through the door. “Mr. Fleming, this is hotel security. Are you alright?”

Blake swings back to the balcony door, smirking. “I think I’ll leave this for you to sort out,” he says, darting out onto the balcony proper and clambering onto the ledge. “You’ve got a better relationship with the local community.”

Bane advances on him slowly, eyes narrowed. Blake had come in through the door. What is he doing?

Crouched on the ledge, Blake appears to hesitate. He half-turns back to Bane. “I think I may have given you the wrong impression, big guy,” he says, smiling sweetly. “I’m actually pretty old-fashioned. But you _are_ nice to look at, even with the mask, so I’ll give you a tip: next time you feel like whipping out the kinky toys, remember that a little wining and dining beforehand can go a long way with me. Okay?”

Blake smiles coyly, then rolls himself backward off the balcony.

Bane doesn’t leap forward or dive after him. Instead, he waits.

Sure enough, he hears the clunk and whirr of machinery. Bane walks slowly toward the edge and peers over it. Blake stares back up at him from a rapidly descending window-washing scaffold, eyes bright. Just before the shadows swallow him up entirely, he gives Bane a jaunty wave.

Dangling from his index finger, the Reventon’s key fob and chain flashes in the moonlight.

Bane watches him go.

**Author's Note:**

> This is totally the most indulgent thing I've ever written (and I'm including the 'Barsad subs in as Nightwing' crack fic). Canon Bane and Blake cannot kiss. This is the only universe where I get to write about them making out *cries*
> 
> Charles E. Fleming's appearance is completely based off Tom Hardy's Ricki Tarr.
> 
> If anyone is curious about why it's such a big deal, the Lamborghini Reventon is an extremely limited edition car - there are only twenty in the world.
> 
> \---
> 
> Silly, silly outtake (because Barsad is the best bb):
> 
>    
> “Tell me again. What happened exactly? Do not leave out any details,” Barsad says.
> 
> “ _Now_ which one of us is indulging in schadenfreude?”
> 
> “I just want to know how a _petty thief_ ,” and Barsad's clearly relishing throwing the phrase back at Bane, “got the upper hand on Gotham’s favourite hero.”
> 
> “I have told you already. Why ask to hear it again?”
> 
> “It will help me refine my material, so when I re-tell this story, I can do it with polish and flair,” Barsad replies, deadpan.
> 
> Bane barely restrains himself from slapping Barsad upside the head for his cheek.
> 
> Barely.


End file.
